Whole
by Macx
Summary: post-book. Established relationship. A hit on Aziraphale leaves the angel badly wounded. Crowley takes care of his lover. First in a series. M-M relationship


**Whole**  
by Macx

The scream ripped through the air, relaying such soul-deep agony that the demon, who was the only witness to the pain, flinched involuntarily. Reptilian eyes, no longer hidden behind protective sunglasses, looked at the tortured being lying on the bed. The narrow features were ghastly pale, the lips bloodless, and the cheeks appeared hollow. The eyes looked bruised with the shadows forming underneath them, and overall was a flush of fever.

Angels didn't get a fever.

This one had.

Aziraphale whimpered and tried to curl up. One wing lay across the black covers, no longer white and pristine and angelic. It was slashed and torn, burned in places, and the feathers were spattered with blood. Thankfully the bleeding had stopped, but not before leaking copious amounts onto the fresh bedspread, making it necessary to change the whole thing, including the mattress. The other wing was mostly okay. It had been dislocated and the demon had done his best to move it back, eliciting more cries.

Angel wings.

The most sensitive appendages, so easily ripped to shreds. But also the most sensuous points if one chose to take the time to explore them.

Crowley carefully sat on the new mattress, feeling it dip slightly under his weight, and he regarded the other being.

"Fool," he whispered.

Aziraphale moaned, blue eyes fluttering open for a second. They were glassy and too bright, showing the same feverish glaze as the skin, and his hands twitched.

"Crow-ley?" he breathed.

Crowley couldn't but lean forward, looking into those eyes that had fascinated him for so long. Even in this agony they were beautiful.

Demons enjoyed agony.

This demon didn't. Not when it was his angel feeling it; not when it was his angel pleading silently with him to make it go away.

"I'm here, angel," he said. "Relax."

"The demon?"

"Gone. You got him."

But not before the ugly bastard had gotten the angel. It had been a fight to the death, literally, and Crowley had only arrived after everything had been over. He didn't even know the demon's name, only that it had been lethal for the divine creatures. Poisonous claws, acidic breath and a temper that put every single demon Crowley had ever met to shame. He wasn't so sure who had set the thing on Aziraphale, but he knew that it had been a hit. Someone had wanted the angel dead.

Damn.

Aziraphale drew a shuddering breath and whimpered again. Healing himself should have been no great feat, but some wounds even an angel was unable to mend with lightning speed. These, for instance. These would take time.

Crowley reached out and ran a feather-light caress over the pale skin of one shoulder, careful not to get too close to the torn wing. It hurt him to see the delicate appendages in that state. His own wings ached in sympathy at the pain Aziraphale suffered. If the demon wasn't already dead, Crowley would have gone out and slain it himself.

A hit.

On an angel.

If Above ever got wind of it, there would be hell to pay. Literally.

Crowley had no idea how much of what was happening to them was really of any interest to their respective bosses, but he suspected someone was keeping a bit of an eye on them. To his knowledge there had never been an Arrangement like theirs. What angel in his right mind and what demon who thought anything of his skills would agree to this form of almost-peaceful co-existence?

Back then it had sounded ludicrous, but it worked. It had given them a sort of peace and out of that peace, a friendship had grown. After nearly tearing each other apart, of course.

Crowley ghosted a touch over the torn wing, smiling sadly, a glint in his eyes at the memories. He had done something similar to them once; thousands of years back. His claws were intimately acquainted with the delicate structure-- in a positively negative and demonic way.

"What you do to me, angel," he whispered and ran careful fingers through the limp strands of bloodied hair. It was glued together from the drying fluid and looked very un-angelic.

Aziraphale had done a lot. He had made him do things no respectable demon would have done. He had made him work good things against his better judgment, but with little to no real argument either. Crowley had secretly delighted in making the angel smile, even while he had been growling and hissing and snapping on the outside. They had shared centuries, even millennia, and their co-existence had turned from mere tolerance to acceptance to friendship to a relationship neither could probably describe.

And then it had happened.

Demons didn't love, Crowley had always told himself.

Demons had no friends.

Demons could feel little in the ways of affection.

But this demon had felt it. He felt such a useless, stupid, bloody emotion like love. It felt wonderful.

It hadn't started out like it, though. First there had been the blossoming interest in his supposed enemy. Aziraphale was a multi-layered character with very open angelic traits and a lot of hidden not so angelic ones. Crowley had discovered small things, tiny things, bastard things, and he had delighted in them as well. He had teased his angel, had taunted, had tempted, and he had watched the celestial being grow into more than just one of the many copies of text book angels.

Aziraphale was special. There was a... chemistry between them; a special chemistry.

It had been fascination, then the affection, much to his surprise and open disgust, and finally... an emotion he had never experienced before with this intensity.

_What you do to me?_ he thought again. _What you have always done?_

Aziraphale had let him love him. And he had loved him back. Aziraphale had opened up that hard shell for the soppy, mushy emotions to leak in. He had made him feel.

Crowley still didn't know how it had started. He hadn't tried to actively tempt the angel, nor had he only lusted after him, though lust had been heavy on his mind for a while. They had met over tea, had talked, and everything had been so normal. So... every day of their lives together.

Together.

He smiled a little.

Yes, they had a life together. Six thousand years living almost always in each other's back yard. Where there was Crowley, Aziraphale would sooner or later appear. The demon expected it, looked forward to it, and lately had started to crave it. Aziraphale made everything bearable. He could let his frustration out on his divine counterpart, he could rant and snarl and hiss, and the angel would listen. He could still be himself, his nasty, evil self, he could enjoy his work, and Aziraphale would listen to him.

After the Near-Apocalypse he had spent the days without Aziraphale feeling empty and alone.

Demons weren't supposed to feel like that.

But he did.

Did that make him something else?

He sighed a little and gazed sadly at the brutalized form. Aziraphale had started to shiver and the whimpers were back, so he carefully drew up the cover and murmured soothingly to the seriously injured angel.

His angel.

Finally.

For centuries he had always thought of the divine being as his. Aziraphale was his partner, his friend, his confidant and the only one he truly trusted. It had been a shock to find out, but also a relief. He would turn his back on him and trust Aziraphale not to smite him.

After the Near-Apocalypse he hadn't turned his back. He had confronted his own emotions, garbled and surreal as they were, and he had approached the angel head-on.

Taking what was his.

Surprised how forcefully Aziraphale had replied.

Crowley had expected to be thrown out, struck by divine power, but instead he had found a wet, hot mouth kissing him back, strong hands digging into his leather jacket, and a wall colliding with his back.

Near-death experiences and extreme situations revealed emotions and let people do things they usually wouldn't. Like kissing the enemy. Like fumbling with his clothes and finally being naked. Like bedding with a demon, letting him not only lick and kiss and nibble at every inch of his body, but also enter him and sleep with him.

Making love, Aziraphale had called it. Sharing something intimate, something special.

Crowley had had no words for it, had only acted and reacted, had let his lust guide him into taking what he claimed as his. When he had finally spilled inside the angel, his angel, marking him for all eternity, he hadn't called it love.

Love was alien to him.

Love wasn't him.

But still...

He had gazed into the deeply blue eyes, read the satisfaction in there, the trust, the... the love...

Love is not wrong, Aziraphale had told him. Love is no sin. Love was what the angel felt, had felt, would always feel. Angels loved, but that thing between them... it wasn't angelic love. It was Aziraphale... pure and without intervention of a higher being. This was his angel.

"My angel," Crowley murmured and stroked one feverish cheek.

His claim on Aziraphale was complete; and he was a possessive bastard. His marks shone for all to see who cared to look. Invisible but still standing out. The same was true for him.

For the first few encounters Crowley had feared to see Aziraphale Fall, see him pushed downward onto his level, the demon level, but nothing of the like had happened. Aziraphale hadn't fallen, and he still enjoyed love, the simple act of kissing, the more complex part of sleeping together, the carnal pleasure of climax as it ripped through them and obliterated everything.

And his angel hadn't Fallen.

Crowley was thankful for whoever was responsible, for whoever interpreted their relationship as not sinful. Maybe it was Him, maybe it was just luck. He didn't want to tempt that. Never.

Crowley had Fallen once and he would always be a fallen angel, a demon; he didn't want Aziraphale to experience that.

A new, breathy whimper let him turn his attention back to his lover.

The demon couldn't truly heal his angel. It would hurt him more than it would help. He had done what he could in the beginning, had drawn out the poison to the unending screams of the one he had tried to help. Aziraphale had convulsed under his ministrations, begged and cried and pleaded for him to stop, but Crowley had known it was something he had to do.

He had cleaned the wound, removed charred feathers and flesh, trying to ignore the weakening whimpers and pleas. Hurting Aziraphale was bad, but hurting him while trying to help had cut into him.

Demons shouldn't feel this way.

But this one did.

_You changed me, Zira_, he thought with an odd little smile around his lips. _You changed me and I like it. I'll never be what I once was. I don't even remember the me I was so long ago. I like who I am; I like my job._

And Aziraphale let him do it. Their discussions about right and wrong, good and evil, had always been wonderfully inspiring, and never had the angel tried to sway him from his side. They worked for their respective bosses and they did their jobs well. The Arrangement helped. He was an evil, no-good bastard, tempting people. A frustrated bastard, too. He loved Earth, and he despised the bureaucracy of Hell- though Heaven was no better. Through the centuries he had learned to read Aziraphale pretty well and had discovered similar traits in him. Not so outspoken and loud, not so prominent, but there.

It worked. It was just them.

And they were... complicated... complex... not easy to understand.

The Near-Apocalypse had changed them forever. Permanently... not like before... Before... well, before there had always been a few back doors. Now, after witnessing what they had, after realizing that neither Heaven nor Hell were truly what either had believed.

Crowley sighed.

His life here on Earth had taken a really bad turn, had careened around dangerous corners, had made a full stop, and he had found himself facing something he had never wanted to.

Emotions and Aziraphale.

His angel.

His lover.

The were both still here, neither one being recalled, and whatever had happened behind the scenes, it would never be as it had been before. At least for them. The others, his kind or Aziraphale's, would probably be going on as always. But for them...?

Crowley moved onto the mattress and shifted so that he could cushion Aziraphale against him. He smiled a little more as the restless moans quieted, as the angel snuggled closer.

He had long since given up on pretending when it came to this being; Aziraphale knew him better than anyone else. He had touched places no one had ever been allowed to.

The demon nuzzled some unblemished skin, leaving a gentle kiss.

Their first time had been heaven and hell. It had been incredible and he had never felt like this before. It hadn't been anything like he had thought it would be like to taste an angel, to take him, to show him what carnal pleasures a demon could bring. It had been soft and gentle, and he had been careful. He knew he was Aziraphale's first and would also be his last.

His angel.

In every sense of the word.

Aziraphale had learned fast, had discovered the pleasures a human body could bring, and he had quickly memorized just what drove one Anthony J. Crowley mad with lust. Their later encounters had turned quite... adventurous.

Flicking a sweaty lock out of the pale face, Crowley smiled a the memory of Aziraphale's expression of wonder at bringing him to a climax, gazing down into the demonic eyes, taking in the satisfied features of his new lover, and then the wicked gleam in the blue gaze had told Crowley what to expect in the future.

He liked their future.

He liked what they did, be it in a bed or outside.

Their relationship was special. Love between an angel and a demon.

Not really unheard of, not discouraged, but usually regarded as highly unlikely due to circumstances. Demons disliked the angelic auras, disliked the way the divine beings felt, and they actually hated the softness, the radiance, the beauty.

Crowley had adjusted. To Aziraphale's aura, to his manners, to his philosophy, to everything. And he knew that the angel in turn had adjusted to his demonic counterpart. They had both met in the middle, that wonderful gray middle where there was no black or white, where there was no pure good or absolute evil.

Theirs was a world of both sides.

They could hurt each other badly, could tear the other apart, but Crowley had long since buried that particular demonic emotion. Aziraphale had never tried to extinguish him, at least after the first few encounters, and he would rather bite his own claws off than to harm the angel. Any other angel, though... all bets were off.

"Mine," he whispered into one ear, kissing the shell gently. He couldn't say the words, choked on the three important little words that meant so much, but he could be a possessive bastard.

Demons could love. Demons could care.

Well, he could. He didn't know about the rest of the ugly bunch, but they had no right to his angel anyway. And if the bastard who had ordered the hit would ever become known to him, Crowley would make sure that he understood that before Crowley obliterated him.

And he would find him.

The moment Aziraphale was out of danger, he would.

°

He spent the rest of the day and the whole night with his angel, listening to the raspy breathing finally grow more even, watched as healing powers slowly took care of the damage. The beautiful wings mended, though they still had lengths to go. Crowley stroked over the newly healed flesh, feeling the beginnings of feathers. By the same time tomorrow they might be all grown out.

Wings were delicate. Wings were beautiful. They were a target of every demon attacking an angel and in their first few encounters Crowley had made sure to tear out feathers or to try and break the bones. Now those wings were a delight for him to see. He loved grooming them for his lover, bury his hands in their downy depths, and he loved to listen to Aziraphale's harsh breathing when he was done playing over all the little hot spots he had discovered.

Sensitive wings. Very, very sensitive wings.

Clawed fingers danced over those sensitive wings; not with the intent to harm, not with the intent to arouse. He just wanted... needed... to touch.

Gazing at the claws he sighed softly to himself. His demonic side had risen unbidden and he had probably lost most of his human features by now.

Worry did that.

Worry and hatred at the mindless beast who had mauled his angel.

Aziraphale murmured a little and suddenly blinked his eyes open. The blue was much clearer, still too bright to be without a fever, but he looked better. Crowley gazed into the familiar eyes, smiling.

"Zira."

Aziraphale managed a smile and one hand rose shakily, cupping his face. Crowley leaned into the touch, not caring how that made him look. He hid nothing from his angel any more. Good, bad, angry or mushy and disgustingly lovely.

"You look tired," Aziraphale whispered, stroking a thumb over his cheek.

"You look like crap, angel, so quit criticizing."

"My apologies."

Crowley leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on the familiar lips. "How do you feel?" he inquired.

"Like crap."

He chuckled. "Rest some more. You're doing fine in the healing department."

"Good." It wasn't more than a breathy whisper and Aziraphale's eyes slid shut.

The angel wrapped a limp arm around his waist, effectively telling Crowley what he wanted, and the demon was only too happy to comply. Staying with his angel in bed wasn't such a hardship.

"You smell good, angel," Crowley whispered, nuzzling a temple, feeling the soft hair brush against his nose.

Even in his pain, in his state of suffering, Aziraphale smelled good. Maybe it was a demonic trait, to like the smell of suffering, but Crowley doubted it. He hated the pain he could smell and taste, but the overpowering essence that was Aziraphale drowned it.

The angel murmured something indistinct, unconsciously trying to get closer to the demon. Crowley just smiled, a gentle smile that no one but one person would ever see.

"Really good," he breathed and brushed a kiss over the still too pale lips.

° ° °

Crowley woke to the sensation of his angel wrapped around him, snuggled into his form, and his almost-back-to-normal wings resting over the pair like a feathery blanket. He pushed white down out of his face and had to smile at the peaceful expression in his counterpart's face. Aziraphale was sleeping, and there were no lines of pain anywhere to be seen. Crowley pushed back a strand of light hair and buried his fingers in the silky mass, stroking it. Aziraphale made a sleepy noise and his eyes cracked open, brilliant blue meeting serpentine yellow.

"Morning, Zira," Crowley murmured.

Wings moved, feathers rustling and whispering in the wake, and the angel smiled. "Good morning, Crowley."

"Feeling better?"

There was a moment of thoughtful contemplation as Aziraphale took inventory. "Splendid, actually. Almost as good as new."

Crowley kissed his angel's nose and chuckled at the expression his action evoked. He let one hand come to rest on the formerly so savagely torn wing, running his palm and fingers over it. Aziraphale closed his eyes, a breathy moan escaping his lips, but there was no sign of pain. Crowley ghosted over the healed wounds, felt the remnants of the healing involved to mend them, and played along recently grown feathers. They were incredibly soft.

"Crowley..."

"Yes?" he whispered, making it almost a hiss.

He found a little hot spot and worked it. Aziraphale exhaled sharply, the wings twitching.

"Don't tease..." the angel answered, voice strained.

Crowley smiled and it looked downright nasty. "But that's my job, angel. I tease and I tempt. I'm an evil bastard."

And as if to prove his point he found that particular spot again, making his counterpart shudder.

"That I know," Aziraphale managed to answer. "Only too well, my dear."

He leaned in for a kiss, their tongues meeting, and the innocent little kiss launched something darkly possessive in Crowley.

The kiss deepened, grew more possessive. He tasted the remnants of pain, the growing passion, the pureness that was Aziraphale. He bit the lower lip, evoking a whimper, and then peppered the pale skin with little bites until he reached one ear.

Strong fingers dug into his shoulders, holding him in place, pushing him away, wanting more, fearing the intensity. Aziraphale was a riddle wrapped in an enigma sometimes. He was passionate and unrestrained, but then there were those shy moments, moments when Crowley wondered if he wasn't looking at a twin.

He flipped them around, mindful of the wings, and hovered over his angel with a soft growl. Aziraphale smiled invitingly, the swollen lips tempting Crowley more than he could ever tempt the angel.

"Zira," he whispered, his voice rough.

Aziraphale wrapped a leg around him, locking them more tightly together, pushing up to bring the evidence of their arousal in sharper contact. Crowley's eyes dilated as much as snake eyes could.

"Angel..."

Crowley's mind flashed back to the agony that had distorted the handsome features not so long ago, just a day, and the growl intensified. The smell or arousal and past pain mixed into a heady aroma and he hissed softly, taking it all in. Demonic eyes flashed and he grabbed Aziraphale's wrists to keep those not so innocent hands away from his body where they had done some interesting things.

The angel had healed, was fine, alive and very much aroused in his bed. Very much, his mind told him again, hinting at what was happening further down south.

Crowley took the smiling lips in a forceful kiss, felt his body thrum with need and anticipation of tasting more of his lover. Aziraphale arched against him, let his fingers slide into the black hair, tousling it even more than it already was from sleeping. The wings shook gently, relaying to Crowley just how aroused the angel was.

He wanted to take it easy, make sure Aziraphale was okay, but he couldn't get himself to ask. All indicators ran toward 'yeah, he's okay all right and damn, get it on now!'. When his lover gently twisted a nipple, flicking a finger over it, Crowley pushed all thoughts concerning a possible health hazard aside.

No one teased a demon and got away with it.

Not even an angel.

°

They lay together, a warmly glowing tangle of arms and legs and the occasional feather. Crowley watched the marks he had left on his angel's body fade, grow fainter and fainter until they had disappeared. He knew he had lost himself a bit more than usual, being more demanding, forceful, even harsh in their love-making. He had listened to Aziraphale scream as he came, the cry of ecstasy finally erasing the memories of the agonized screams of before. He had unwillingly marked the recently wounded body with more red scars, but they were fading. Only the bite on one shoulder was still there, a glaring symbol of their passion.

"Zira?" he murmured.

Blue eyes looked at him, deeply satisfied, warm and lazy.

"I'm perfectly fine," the angel whispered. "Thank you."

Crowley rested his head on the nicely formed chest, listening to the heartbeat. He still felt echoes of their passion race through him as Aziraphale gently stroked over his back.

This was their love. Something neither white nor black. Like their existence. His darkness was tempered by the angel's gentleness, like the gentleness wasn't all that divine. Beneath those perfect features lay a devilish core that fired up Crowley like nothing else.

This was them. No one would ever be able to understand what it was between them, hard and gentle, good and bad, demonic and angelic. It was only for them.

His angel.

Crowley smiled and stroked over the pristine feathers, plucking gently at them, drawing little noises of barely veiled loving protest.

His alone.

Crowley was content. A feeling he would never confess to, but he was. He simply was. And that was all that counted.


End file.
